I occasionally “feel old,” when I scrunch up my nose in disdain while passing a group of 19-year-olds in the mall -- wearing things 19-year-olds wear and saying things 19-year-olds say.
(And I will stand firmly by my belief that, even at 19, I was never as ditzy and loopy as some of these chicks.)
Thirty-two feels good. I’m comfortable with it, like a favorite pair of well-worn, lived-in jeans that still make your butt look nice. Speaking of looks, sometime while I was 31, I was studying a recently taken picture and I said, appreciatively, I looked my age. My friend was like, “Don’t say that!” Well, why not? And yes, when I glance at photos taken in the last five days, I see a 32-year-old woman (a pretty nice looking one, I might add…).